hension for one wearing the garb and character of a humble fisherman.
This holding up a strayed painter with a gun now showed itself an unusual act. But Bettington, watching and guessing little of what was taking place in his mind, noted that the gun was still held in such a position as to constitute a threat.
"Who are you?" said Gibbs. His voice now took on the accent of the locality. It was this change which made Bettington glance at him with renewed interest.
He Had Enemies
The man who had first spoken had in his tone something of the inflection which refinement gives. Now it was a man with a less bellicose look and a rougher accent.
Bettington related his misadventures.
"A painter, eh?" said Gibbs. He crossed the room, took down from a shelf a pencil and a piece of paper. These he handed to the other.
"Prove it,” he commanded. "Draw something."
Bettington hesitated for a moment. He was not a man who went the better for being driven. But the look on the fisherman’s face was not reassuring.
It occurred to him that here was a solitary who was mentally unbalanced. He sketched in a few skillful strokes a portrait of the man standing there, his gun balanced in the crook of his arm.
Jonathan Gibbs looked at it in silence.
"It is good," he said deliberately. "Whatever else you may be you are a draftsman."
"Why should I be anything than I pretend?" Bettington reached for the drawing, but the fisherman threw it into the maw of the stove.
"You've never seen me before?" Gibbs demanded.
"Never," Bettington said a little irritably, "and I shall pass a contented existence if I never see you again. What sort of Maine fisherman are you to behave like this?"
Gibbs put down his gun and assumed a more friendly air.
"I've been threatened," he said rather vaguely. "I've made enemies hereabout. I have to be careful. I was startled. That was it. I was startled."
"You certainly startled me," said the other. "I hoped to be able to pass the night here and dry my clothes."
"You surely can," said Jonathan Gibbs. "I'll boil the water and make you some coffee. I guess you're hungry."
It was after the meal that Bettington asked him: "Why should any one threaten you here?"
"Jealousy," said Gibbs, after a pause. "I'm not a State of Maine man, and I don’t mix with any one around. They don’t understand that."
"But that gun?" Bettington persisted. "This isn't a feud district like the Kentucky mountain regions."
The Next Morning
"They try to steal my chickens," Gibbs answered, "and I won't stand for it."
Plainly the man had something to conceal. After all, Bettington told himself, it was none of his business. He had often met queer, ingrown characters.
It were wiser to let the gun-carrying man with the different accent remain hidden. He could not go out into the black night, now made doubly impassable by the deluge of rain. Gibbs made up the fire by packing a huge armful of wood into it.
Bettington was awakened by the aroma of coffee. Gibbs was holding Bettington's shoes up. He smiled when he saw his visitor was looking at him.
"Dried stiff as boards," he announced. "They'll need to be greased before you can get into 'em, and your
